Kip furrowed his brow. I appeared to be speaking in tongues, my words incomprehensible once they left my mouth. Were we having the same conversation? Had he not learned his lines from the movie I had cast us in—The Illicit Affair, starring Imogene Abney and Adam Kipling? Or was it me who was reading from the wrong script? “You don’t need my permission to do anything,” he said.
Then he took me by the wrist and guided me towards the pitched tent in his pants, and he let me feel for myself how into me he was.
* * *
I went on a date over the summer before Vandenberg, the first date I’d ever been on, really. His name was Robert. He was a teller at Lockport Federal Credit Union and had graduated from Rochester two years before I graduated from Buffalo State. He asked me to lunch, and I said yes because it didn’t occur to me to say no.
I can’t remember what we talked about. I can’t remember where we ate, or what we ate, or what he looked like. When I returned home and my mom asked me if the date had gone well, I said I didn’t know.
What I remember was looking at the people around me. I remember thinking, I am on a date, and they all know it. The waitress, the maître d’, the woman at the coat check. How thrilling it was to be a girl sitting across the table from a guy, a part of a pair, a person whom someone else had chosen to spend a meal with.
Most thrilling of all: I could add him to my list. Jared Hoffman from high school, Paul the junior from Darby’s brother’s party, Jonah Davis from Communicating Nonverbal Messages, Zeke Maloney from down the hall, Robert from the bank. Guys who had passed through my life, however fleetingly, but for a few months or an afternoon had chosen me. Had been mine.
And now there was Adam Kipling, from Vandenberg School for Boys.
* * *
The time that passed after that first real hookup with Adam Kipling was just that: passing time. I stepped out of the shower the next day unsure if I’d washed my hair or even my body. Food passed between my lips perfunctorily, tastelessly. Hours passed as I sat in study hall or on the side of the lacrosse field or at my desk, unmoving, maybe even unblinking, and thinking of nothing but him and the next time I would be with him. I replayed our interactions. I conjured his face. I felt myself under my blankets at night, imagining my hands were his. It was the fluttery insatiability of a new relationship—yes, relationship, I had finally decided, that is what this was. It was the exhilaration of learning someone new.
Already, less than twenty-four hours since Kip had crept down the stairs and out the back door of the Hovel after finally leaving my bed, none of it felt real, like sand slipping between my fingers. I needed to see him during the day, I decided—walking around campus, flesh and blood and dark curls of hair—to know this wasn’t all a figment of my imagination. I needed to see him upright and animated, a body moving through space rather than the dark, amorphous warmth that lay itself on me and put its mouth to mine. I needed him to see me and to smile and say, Hey, Imogene, to acknowledge me before day turned to night and we transformed into different people. I looked for him and saw him everywhere and nowhere.
Dale noticed my distraction, and he pulled me aside Monday after class.
“Is everything alright, Imogene?”
And I assured him that it was, that everything was more than alright, that things had never felt so right.
“Just be sure to remember that midterms are coming up.”
And I nodded and smiled, the reproach only stinging slightly, the strains and anxieties of everyday life as easy to shake as water droplets.
I finally searched for Kip’s profile page. He had been tagged in 2,056 photos. I looked at every single one.
* * *
After lacrosse practice on Tuesday (where I’d been so distracted I’d tripped over a spare stick and blanked on Clarence’s name when I tried to call him out on a missed pass), I had just returned to my room when Chapin appeared at the door. She wore a silver lamé jumper under a cropped leather jacket and hoop earrings big enough to stick my hand through. “Drinks,” she said.
“Sorry?”
“We’re getting drinks.” Chapin made a beeline for my closet and flipped through the hangers.
“But—” After another day of perpetual inattention, of not knowing whether I’d washed my hair or eaten, or where exactly I was going or supposed to be, of thinking of Kip everywhere and seeing him nowhere, I’d finally decided that I would text Kip first. I would say, Come over, nothing more. I’d get to feel his arms and his chest and the certainty, for another night, that he was real, that he was mine. I was even thinking I might be ready for him to slip beneath my waistband, where two nights before his eager fingers had been hinting. The plan was made, fizzy bubbles of anticipation rising in my belly at the thought of it. I couldn’t back out now.
“You don’t have anything to wear.” Chapin turned to face me, hands on hips.
“The thing is…” My face was still damp from practice, and the thought of doing my makeup all over again was exhausting. “I actually don’t think I can go.”
“You can wear something of mine.” Chapin bulldozed through my words, relentless. She smiled with closed lips; I had no choice. I wondered if it would be possible to keep that day’s makeup and dab off the perspiration, to salvage the work I’d already done once that day.
“Might want to wash your face, too,” Chapin called over her shoulder as she padded down the hall to her closet. “You look sweaty.”
* * *
An hour later, Chapin and I were flying through the dark towards New York City, my body squeezed into Chapin’s too-tight bandage dress and my own denim jacket, which I’d worn much to Chapin’s chagrin. She had brought along a mixed drink for the ride and already I could feel its sedative effects. My mind felt cool and viscous, a wiggly bowl of Jell-O. I turned and studied Chapin’s profile, the changing scenery streaking behind her in a blur. Her eyes were closed and her lips were curled, as though she was thinking of something funny and didn’t plan on sharing. I was glad to be with her then, away from Vandenberg, away from the hot confines of my room and my thoughts. Perhaps this would give me the clarity I needed. Or perhaps I just needed some alcohol to soften the lights and turn time to liquid. It really did scare me, how much I enjoyed the feeling of slipping into drunkenness, of slipping out of my head to float around in space. Sometimes I never wanted to return.
We went for drinks at a place Chapin knew; the neighborhood or the street or even the name of the restaurant I couldn’t have said. We sat at the bar and she ordered us two bright pink drinks that came in cocktail glasses with an orange wedge perched on the edge. The music was loud and angry. Chapin drained half her drink, returned it to the bar, and then stared at me.
“What?” I pursed my lips together and ran my tongue over my teeth, searching for stray food.
She had the same amused half-smile from the train. “You’re not fucking Raj.”
It took me a moment to remember that “fucking” was also an action. “How—?”
“I asked him.” She picked up her drink again, holding the stem of the glass between two skinny fingers.
“What?” My body felt cold and feverish at once. How would I ever explain this to him? “What did he say?”
“He just seemed confused. He said you guys barely even talked.”
For some reason, this hurt more than the exposure of my lie.
She stared at me expectantly. “So?”
“So what?” I picked up my untouched drink and took a sip. It tasted like liquid Jolly Ranchers.
“So who are you really fucking?”
I closed my eyes and tipped the drink back into my mouth. I realized then that I’d known, the moment she appeared in my doorway, that this was where the night would lead. I’d known that she wanted to know, and that she’d eventually convince me to tell her, and I’d gone with her anyway. I wanted Chapin to know. Or, at least, I wanted Chapin to want to know. I had something she didn’t: a secret, equal parts exhilarating and agoniz
ing. But what would be more satisfying, to share or to deny?
I placed my drink on the bar, nearly empty. “Hmm,” I said.
Her big eyes bulged. She was growing impatient. “Are you seriously not going to tell me?”
My head was filled with cotton. “I don’t know.”
Chapin waved over the bartender. Two more drinks appeared.
“You trying to liquor me up?” I joked. My tongue was suddenly too big for my mouth and words came out mangled.
She pouted and sipped her drink.
A thought occurred to me. “Why do you want to know so bad?”
Chapin considered this. “The same reason you want to tell me,” she concluded. Her face softened. “I like you, Imogene. Seriously. I have fun with you. I want to be friends with you.”
My chest thudded erratically. Chapin Dunn wanted to be friends with me! And I realized, with amazing clarity, that she was right—I did want to tell her. I wanted to romanticize every interaction in the retelling, to dissect each nuance. I wanted someone else to make sense of it all. I needed Chapin to make it real. “If I tell you…” I started cautiously. I spoke slowly. It felt important to hide the fact that I was drunk.
Chapin nodded solemnly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Do you promise?”
“Jesus, Imogene, yeah, I promise.”
“Because he pursued me. You have to know that, that he came on to me and that’s how it happened.”
“What, is he a teacher?”
“No.” I looked down at my lap, trying to hide my smile. Saying the words felt like taking a dive. “A student.”
She blinked. “Oh my god.” She laughed, amused, surprised, contemptuous. She put her hand to her mouth, saying everything, nothing. “Please tell me that he’s at least—”
I nodded. “A fourth year. Yeah. He is.”
“Name?”
“Kip. Adam Kipling.” And with those words, there was no turning back. I tried my best to swallow my unease at her reaction. I clinked my drink against Chapin’s without invitation, sloshing a little onto the hem on my borrowed dress, and drank until my head drifted up to the ceiling.
* * *
We didn’t talk much on the ride home. We were lost in our own private thoughts. Her silence unnerved me. My head still felt waterlogged, but regret was creeping in. It would be better if we were talking. If we were talking, I wouldn’t have to worry about what she was thinking.
My phone was in my hand. He hadn’t texted. I felt self-righteous, for having been out, for not having been in my bedroom waiting to hear from him. He didn’t know that, of course, but I still had that satisfaction.
Back on campus, Chapin headed towards the Hovel, and I told her I would see her later.
“What?” She looked suddenly like a little girl, her jumper shapeless on her slight frame. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be back later,” I said. I intended for this to sound suggestive, but it sounded more like a question, expectant of approval. I waited for her to return a conspiring smile.
She frowned. “Okay.” I felt myself deflate; I’d let down, and maybe even lost, the confidante I’d gained just an hour before. But that wouldn’t stop me. I’m not even sure what could.
I was halfway to Perkins Hall before I knew that I’d decided to go there hours earlier. I’d planned the whole night ahead of time and neglected to fill myself in.
* * *
I remembered where Kip’s dorm room was. I slipped off my heels at the front door of Perkins and slithered up the stairs, a performance of stealth. I put my ear to his door—silent. I knocked once, and then twice, and waited.
He opened the door, bleary-eyed and unsurprised. I wondered what time it was.
“Hi,” he said.
“May I come in?” Mother May I. I cringed at my misstep, tried to hold onto the liquored confidence that had led me there.
He opened the door wider and made a grand sweeping gesture. I padded inside and deposited my heels on the floor. Then I took in his room.
The walls were sparse and orderly—a banner from a Hingham sailing regatta, framed album covers (The Who, Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Rolling Stones), a poster of the London Eye. His desk was empty save for an open laptop and speakers. Three pairs of shoes (loafers, sneakers, boat shoes) made a neat row along the edge of his bed. A soccer ball sat in his closet, which was free from clutter. I wasn’t sure exactly what I had expected—baseball cards? Race car memorabilia? Ashtrays and pipes? Even his few pairs of jeans, all dark wash and expensive-looking, hung from hangers among the khakis and suit pants in his closet. It looked like a picture from a catalogue. It looked uninhabited.
“Welcome.” He kissed me hard on the mouth and tangoed me backwards onto his bed, a move that felt at once effortless and choreographed. I nearly stumbled, but he held me steady. He propped me up against his pillows and set about clearing the books from his bed.
“This isn’t what I expected.” It was an echo of an earlier conversation, the same words he’d said to me when he’d first seen my bedroom. I smiled at him hopefully, but he didn’t seem to recognize his own words. After a pause I added, “You hang up your jeans.”
He leaned over me to switch off the lamp on his bedside table. “Don’t you?”
We kissed frantically, desperately, talking through each other in senseless circles between kisses.
“Are your walls thin?”
“I like your dress.”
“Like, can you ever hear the people next door?”
“You never wear anything like this.”
“Did I wake you up? Were you sleeping?”
“How do you take it off?”
Then I was naked, and so was he. I don’t remember it happening; I just suddenly realized that all my skin touched all of his. He realized the same moment I did, as though we were both waking from a dream.
“You’re naked.”
“Yeah.”
“I like it.”
He nosed his way into my underarm and inhaled deeply. He planted a line of tiny soft kisses, starting at the crown of my head and working his way down to my chin. He paused, his chin on my chest, and looked up at me like a question. I hoped he couldn’t see up my nose.
“Do you…” Kip turned his face left, then right, and planted a kiss on each of my nipples. It tickled, and I laughed.
“Do I…?”
He batted at my left breast with his hand, bouncing it up and down, his eyes still on me. “You know,” he said.
“Do you want to?”
“Only if you do.”
“Have you…?”
“A few girls. You?”
“One guy. A couple times.” I paused. I didn’t want to ask it, but the question pressed against my lips, threatening to spew out like vomit. “Did you with Kaya?”
He drew back, and my body stiffened with horror. I’d ruined the moment. I’d ruined everything. “What is your obsession with Kaya?”
“I just…” I couldn’t stop thinking about her, the ethereal blond creature I’d designed in my mind, the apprentice who’d invited Kip into her bedroom before me. Who was she? What was she after? Kip would have been a second year at the time. That relationship—whatever relationship they had—felt far removed from my own relationship with Kip, and yet it plagued me all the same. There was something wrong with it. Fucked up. Nothing felt wrong about what I was doing, but still I somehow needed Kip’s reassurance that it was okay, that what we were doing was okay. “Never mind.” I peeked up at him, channeling coquette. “I want to be with you.”
“Okay. So…” His hand was off my breast. A finger slipped inside of me. We smiled goofy, embarrassed smiles. Yes, he had done this before.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Cool.”
He reached into the top drawer in his bedside table. In the pale moonlight of the window, his body looked gaunt, fragile. It occurred to me suddenly that he might be skinnier than me. I reached up and petted the furry pelt of his
chest.
“Don’t hate on the chest hair.”
“I like chest hair.”
He pulled aside the sheets, and got onto his knees, his sheathed hard-on poised to take over the world. His smile cut through the dark. I’m going to have sex with Adam Kipling, I thought suddenly, lucidly.
“Are you ready?” he said.
“I am,” I said.
TEN
My old hookup Zeke Maloney spent the summer after graduation bartending in Rockaway Beach. I know this not because he told me, but because I saw pictures online. Natalie Dawkins, who I eventually concluded to be his new girlfriend, tagged several photos of him throughout the summer—pretending to drink a giant bottle of whiskey behind the bar, lazing on a towel at the beach. Natalie Dawkins had thick bangs and a crooked nose. I decided that I hated her.
Zeke and I hadn’t spoken since the previous March, but still that summer I thought about him. I replayed our interactions. I imagined new ones. I planned out what I would say if I were to ever see him again.
Rockaway Beach wasn’t far. I could have driven there to see him if I wanted to. I could have shown up at Bungalow (yet another fact of his life gleaned from his profile rather than him) while he was working. I didn’t want a relationship with him, I was pretty certain of that, but what I did want was acknowledgment that what had transpired between us mattered.
You were with me, I would say. You were inside of me. You won’t forget that, will you? You can’t forget that. You can’t forget me.
I never did go to see him, of course. Those kinds of things only happen in movies.
* * *
Kip lay on top of me for a while after he finished, his heart knocking frantically against my chest, breathing as though he’d just run a race. My legs were propped up on either side of his skinny body, bent into triangles. I wished to wind them around his back like ropes, hold him tight against me until his heart slowed and even after that. My arms lay useless at my sides. I wasn’t sure yet of the rules; could I still touch him after it was over? And how was I supposed to touch him?
He put his mouth to my neck. “Was that good?” he asked, speaking into my skin.
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